


stay like this forever, love

by Chisotahn



Series: feathers, black and blue [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Light Bondage, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:33:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25475440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chisotahn/pseuds/Chisotahn
Summary: The sense of pressure in his head increases, and he presses a hand to his temple. There’s only so much longer he’ll be able to stall. There’s only so much they can take.“Anders? Is everything all right?”Anders lets out a breath. “No, but there’s nothing you or I can do to fix it,” he says, a little louder than needed.Hawke raises an eyebrow. “That’s fatalistic, even for you.”“Forgive me if the sight of dying children doesn’t fill me with joy,” Anders snaps, then slumps again, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with.”“I know,” Hawke says quietly, so gently that Anders can hardly stand it. It’s so different from Hawke’s usual wisecracks. He might be the only person in Kirkwall who knows that Hawke can sound like that, and it breaks something in him.“I need… I can’t think any more,” Anders manages, his voice going raw in his throat. “Hawke… make it go away.Please.”(Act 3, with all that implies; Anders, close to breaking, looks for comfort in Hawke's bed.)
Relationships: Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Male Hawke
Series: feathers, black and blue [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1801549
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	stay like this forever, love

Anders has no idea what time it is, not that time matters much in Darktown. Even the few places where the sky is distantly visible let in only an indistinct, watery light that tells him nothing. He’s exhausted, but when isn’t he exhausted, these days? He’s either in the clinic or following Hawke or trying to write fast enough, cleverly enough to change the world without giving in to the increasingly insistent thrum in the back of his mind. Sleep is something he stumbles upon by accident, waking up bleary-eyed at the desk in their bedroom, a blanket draped over his shoulders and ink staining his cheek. 

He’s not sure why today was so awful, a constant stream of people banging on his door, lurching up against the walls as they tried to keep their guts in their bodies. The Coterie, the Carta, some other bloody gang in the Undercity - he used to care about who squabbled with who, if only to know what corners of Darktown to avoid, but now it feels like too much work. If he knows who stabbed who and why, he might feel compelled to do something about it, and Maker’s breath, he’s so fucking tired. 

Deliberate ignorance is a form of running away that the part of him that is Justice hasn’t quite figured out yet. The trick will stop working eventually, he’s sure. You can hide things from yourself, but not forever.

Right now, Anders is trying to chase a cough out of a little girl’s lungs. Healing disease is harder than healing injury, but the cough is bad enough that it could be fatal without magical intervention. It feels like bailing out a boat with a spoon, he’s so drained from the day’s work; even if he weren’t, it wouldn’t feel much better. Whatever foulness has taken up residence in the girl’s chest feels thick and hard against his magic, difficult to move.

Anders sits back, letting out a long breath. Next to him, the girl’s worried mother makes a small, questioning sound. “Just a moment,” he says, trying for whatever vestiges of bedside manner he can manage. He stands up as she nods, turning her attention back to her daughter, and Anders makes his way to the corner of the room he uses as an apothecary. The jars of various herbs are all half-empty at best. Another thing to scrape out time and energy for, somewhere.

Still, there’s enough for his current need: elfroot, naturally, and dried prophet’s laurel, the leaves crumbled between his fingers. He uses the last of the felandaris, biting back a groan; the last thing he needs is to go where the Veil thins, because it makes Justice so much louder. Maybe he can ask Hawke for help in restocking the apothecary. Hawke is always offering, and Anders has been stubbornly refusing for years. 

… and then Hawke will know how far gone he is, if he’s stooping to asking for help with common herbs. He’ll ask Merrill instead, maybe. She _likes_ Sundermount. Damned blood mages. 

He grinds the herbs together in his battered mortar, the slow scrape of stone-on-stone relaxing, despite everything. Then he pours out every speck into a loose cloth suitable for infusions and returns to the cot, holding the scented bundle out to the mother. “It’s like a tea, but not to drink. Steep it in boiling water and keep her close so she can inhale the steam. It should ease her breathing.” 

The mother lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Thank you, healer.” She gently picks up her daughter, hefting the girl onto one hip with the ease of long practice. The child coughs weakly and snuggles into her mother’s side. “We’ll return, I hope.” 

“As do I,” Anders replies, sober. Patients miss their return visits too often, and while Anders is never sure of the exact reasons, he knows a fair proportion don’t come back because they succumbed to their illness. The girl is so young.

He sets his jaw as the mother gives him a nod and turns to leave. The unfairness of it thrums through him, and he feels the urge to… to do  _something,_ something sharp and decisive that fixes everything all at once, that sets the world right, and he has to close his eyes to focus, to maintain control. The injustice that drove the girl into his care is more complicated than a single act can fix. He _can’t,_ no matter what Justice thinks. 

The clinic is quiet for the first time in hours, and Anders pours what little energy he has left into pulling the doors closed behind him, extinguishing the lamp with a faint crackle of ice. One of the urchins sleeping nearby cracks an eye open, watching him, and Anders just nods. They know to get a message to the Hanged Man if he’s needed, and Varric’s runners will handle the rest. They, at least, can get through Hightown to the Amell estate unremarked.

Shoulders slumping, Anders makes his way to the door that leads up to the manor. He keeps the key on a leather cord around his neck, tucked under his coat, and he fishes it out and fumbles the warm metal into the keyhole, pushing against the stubborn lock until it clicks and lets the door swing free, allowing him into the cellar. He pads quietly up the creaky steps and past rows of neat bottles in their racks. Hawke never did put that bed in the basement like he kept joking about. Too bad. Anders would have been tempted, otherwise. 

Anders emerges into a quiet kitchen - it _is_ night, then, the panes showing nothing but black, the fire banked, no sign of Orana. The main hall is shadowed, only a few candles flickering in their sconces, Bodahn and Sandal nowhere in sight. There’s no hint of dawn in the sky, mercifully.

Crow looks up at him as he pushes open the door to their bedroom, the mabari curled up on his blanket by the fireplace. The dog’s ears flick up, then down; Anders still isn’t any good at canine body language other than the obvious, but he and Crow are sort of used to each other by now. 

What he isn’t expecting is for Hawke to still be awake. The other man rolls over and blinks at him, a sleepy smile spreading over his face, black hair and beard tousled. “You’re back,” Hawke says, propping himself up on one elbow and squinting at him in the dim light. “Coming to bed?”

_ No, _ Anders almost says, out of sheer force of habit; the desk awaits, and maybe if he stares at the parchment for hours he’ll finally come up with the turn of phrase he needs to defuse the war before it begins, the right words to break the Gallows open without blood. But he’s so tired, and the march of injuries through his clinic was so awful, and the girl… Maker’s breath, she was so young to be so wracked by pain. 

The sense of pressure in his head increases, and he presses a hand to his temple. There’s only so much longer he’ll be able to stall. There’s only so much they can take.

“Anders? Is everything all right?”

Anders lets out a breath. “No, but there’s nothing you or I can do to fix it,” he says, a little louder than needed. 

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “That’s fatalistic, even for you.”

“Forgive me if the sight of dying children doesn’t fill me with joy,” Anders snaps, then slumps again, staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with.” 

“I know,” Hawke says quietly, so gently that Anders can hardly stand it. It’s so different from Hawke’s usual wisecracks. He might be the only person in Kirkwall who knows that Hawke can sound like that, and it breaks something in him.

“I need… I can’t think any more,” Anders manages, his voice going raw in his throat. “Hawke… make it go away. _Please._ ”

It’s pathetic, he knows it, but Hawke immediately kicks the bedsheets aside and stands, closing the distance between them in a few quick strides. Anders presses his eyes shut as Hawke wraps him up in his arms, a reassuring, solid warmth. “Anything you want,” Hawke murmurs.

“I don’t want to think,” Anders whispers against Hawke’s hair. Thinking invites interruption, invites pangs of guilt about what he _should_ be doing instead, and it isn’t fair to put everything on Hawke like this but he’s so _fucking tired._

But Hawke just nods and walks them back towards the bed, putting his hands on Anders’ shoulders and turning them both until Anders feels the mattress press against the back of his legs. Hawke pushes down, gently, and Anders sits, heaving out a shaky breath. “Did you even stop to wash?” Hawke says, after a moment, taking one of Anders’ hands in his and running a thumb over Anders’ knuckles. Dust or blood or  _ something _ rasps between their skin. 

Did he wash? Maybe not. “Sorry,” Anders says, but Hawke just gives him a half-smile.

“Wait here,” Hawke orders, and steps out of Anders’ field of vision. Anders just stares at the fireplace and the lump of the sleeping mabari in front of it, their shapes going blurry as his eyes lose focus. Hawke is doing something, but he’s not sure what until the other man returns with a shallow bowl of water and a cloth.

Anders closes his eyes as Hawke rubs warm water over his hands, then wrings out the cloth. “You’ve got a… something, right here,” Hawke says, and scrubs at Anders’ face, loosening a crust of something that’s been on his skin all day, long enough to be forgotten about. Hawke’s one to talk, Anders thinks, what with that splash of red over the bridge of his nose that he insists on wearing, but Anders can’t get the words off his tongue. 

A moment later, Hawke is tugging at Anders’ boots, gently loosening them until he can slip them off his feet. Anders’ socks follow, and then Hawke is working at the buckles of his coat. “Just let me,” Hawke says when Anders tries to help, and Anders shivers and sits back, letting Hawke take care of him. 

Being pushed back onto the slippery sheets is a relief, like a weight taken from him. “This all right?” Hawke asks, holding out the strip of fabric they use as a blindfold, and Anders nods, letting out a long, slow breath as Hawke pulls the blindfold over his eyes, tying the fabric tight with practiced movements. It’s a relief, as is the wordless question of the slim rope coiled in Anders’ palm. He nods again, and a little more tension leaves him as Hawke loops the rope around his wrists, tugging his arms up, removing his options in the gentlest way possible. Exactly what he wants, what he needs.

The world narrows to pinpoints of sensation: in the absence of sight, every sound takes on greater significance, and his skin strains towards Hawke’s touch. That touch, when it comes, is a gentle stroke down his side that sends a jolt of need down his spine, and Anders feels a desperate whine escape him. He hears Hawke’s breath catch.

The mattress bows under Hawke’s weight, and then the other man is kissing him, one hand coming up to cup Anders’ cheek, thumb rasping over his stubble. Anders gasps into Hawke’s mouth and begs to be overwhelmed, for Hawke to reduce everything to heat and need. It comes out as  _ “Galen, please,” _ but he knows Hawke understands what he means. 

Hawke pulls back, and Anders whimpers, the rope tightening around his wrists as he tries to follow Hawke. He tugs against the restraints for a moment before falling back, shaky, trying to figure out where Hawke is, where the next touch will be. Somewhere above him, Hawke makes a strangled,  _ wanting _ noise. 

Hawke’s fingers scrub roughly through Anders’ hair, and Anders lets his head fall back into the touch as Hawke pulls his hair free of its tie. Hawke shifts, and Anders gasps as the other man presses a line of kisses down Anders’ exposed neck, stopping every so often to nip and suck. Anders tries to move, to somehow catch Hawke’s lips with his own, but the hand in his hair tightens, and the brief tug of pain makes Anders shudder as much as the kisses. More, perhaps.

Hawke lifts away, and Anders is about to whine again when Hawke’s hands spread over Anders’ chest, warm and solid and rough. Hawke’s thumbs stroke in circles over Anders’ skin, and Anders jolts as a thumb finds one of his nipples. Maker’s breath, Hawke hasn’t even touched him below the waist and he’s already hard, if the heat in his belly is any indication. Anders gives himself up to the sensation, the tug of ropes around his wrists, the blindfold around his head, the trembling want stirred up by every brush of Hawke’s hands against his skin. It pushes away the roaring in his head, the exhaustion, everything but _now._

Hawke moves lower, fingers tracing over Anders’ ribs, his stomach, his hipbones. A brush against Anders’ cock, so light that he might be imagining it, sends Anders arching up, an incoherent groan escaping him. Hawke mutters something that Anders can’t quite make out, because  _ fuck, _ Anders needs to be touched, needs Hawke’s mouth or hands or  _ something _ on his cock, but Hawke’s hands remain stubbornly at Anders’ waist, fingers curving under to cup his ass, thumbs settling against his hips.

After what feels like far too long, Hawke presses a ghost of a kiss to the tip of Anders’ cock and chuckles, low, as the contact makes Anders whimper and try to thrash, unable to move too far because of Hawke’s grip on him. He feels Hawke shift and settle to one side of him, weight against Anders’ leg. 

When Hawke’s hands release him, Anders stops breathing.

And then Hawke is touching him,  _ finally, _ one hand wrapping around the base of Anders’ cock as he takes the head into his mouth, warm and wet, and Anders moans, arching up. Hawke knows all the little ways to take Anders apart, how to fit his mouth around Anders’ cock and take him in, deep, humming low in his throat. Anders hitches helplessly up into Hawke’s mouth, incoherent needy sounds escaping him.

Hawke’s other hand works its way between Anders’ ass and the mattress. The soft press of Hawke’s fingers against his hole are another wordless question, one Anders answers with a desperate whine that prompts another, albeit muffled, chuckle from Hawke. Anders shudders as Hawke works a slick finger into him. He rocks up against Hawke’s mouth, down against Hawke’s hand, and  _ there’s _ the overwhelming he’s been wanting, everything but Hawke fading away into unimportance. Every movement aches with pleasure, and Anders keens when a second finger joins the first, the hitch of his hips hitting exactly right. 

Hawke is saying something, he thinks, but he’s not sure what it is, only that every word hums through Anders’ cock and takes him apart a little bit more. Hawke pushes into him a little deeper and Anders makes a choked noise, back arching helplessly as he thrusts up and back. He could stay here forever, in this one moment where nothing matters but the two of them. Maker’s breath, if only. 

He tries to brace, push back the rising heat, push it higher, make it last, but there’s only so much he can take. It breaks over him like a wave and Anders cries out as he comes, shuddering into Hawke’s mouth, clenching around Hawke’s fingers. It obliterates everything, leaving him gasping, hitching weakly, chasing the last bursts of sensation.

Hawke holds him close as he comes down, releasing the restraints at his wrists and pulling Anders against him, whispering wordless endearments. He has some vague sense that he should reciprocate, but Hawke stills his shuddering question with a kiss and strokes broad hands down his back, soothing.  _ Safe, _ Anders thinks, dizzy with it, and curls into Hawke’s warmth as his breathing steadies, slows. 

“There, love,” Hawke whispers, as Anders drifts away.

\---

Some hours later, Hawke looks down at Anders as dawn lightens the room.

The mage’s ribs stick out too far; he’s been a wiry thing as long as Hawke has known him, but this has the look of active neglect. It’s been getting worse lately, Anders looking more harried, more stretched thin, even as he insists he’s fine.

He isn’t, and Hawke has no idea what to do.

Carefully, Hawke pulls the blanket up over them both and tucks himself against Anders again, heaving a low sigh as he breathes in sweat and sex and the musky tang of too long without a bath, and he wonders if he can get away with dumping Anders bodily into the manor’s bathtub. If he can slow Anders down just enough to make sure he’s completely taken care of, beyond granting him the oblivion of orgasm.

The uneasy feeling in the pit of Hawke’s stomach remains, and it only deepens when he lurches awake again, alone in the bed. He jerks upright, scanning the room, and relaxes fractionally when he realizes Anders is still present, sitting at the desk, a watery sunbeam falling over the ever-present paper.

“Anders,” he begins, and Anders turns, a faint smile on his face. Anders looks… strangely relieved, as if a weight has left him.

“I think I’ve figured it out,” the mage says. “I need your help with something.”

Hawke pushes the blankets back and gets out of bed, automatically moving to Anders’ side. “Anything,” he says, not even having to think about it.

“I knew you’d say that,” Anders says. He leans into Hawke’s touch when Hawke cups his cheek with one hand. “It won’t be too hard, I promise.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s hard,” Hawke says, firmly. “What is it?”

Anders turns his head just enough to press a kiss to Hawke’s palm. “I’ve been researching. There’s this potion…” 

**Author's Note:**

> I definitely didn't cause myself pain while writing this ahahaha *flings myself bodily into the sea* ow.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
